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2003-09-07 I didn't notice, but they had his aged black and white picture sitting on the floor beside me on the chair. I was playing for my dinner...the neighbors set his old dusty accordion on my lap--the straps decayed off of it. I put my Italian model on the floor, and picked up his ornate pearly bone squeeze box. Francesco's accordion. Her grandfather died nearly 50 years ago. It was strange--dust and bellows; playing the same accordion in the picture for his great grandchildren he never met. The only keepsake the daughter requested and received, but had never heard in song. You can't really play an accordion without straps. A slow and awkward Danube Waves while it wheezed too long for me, held to my body with my chin. Only, after I shifted the weight of it back to my lap did I feel the darkness of the room...to meet their eyes. And they called my playing a 'dying art'. I felt myself half-smile and went out with Rue and the moon to watch our breath. |